


Motherless Child (Come As You Are)

by Sparrow (hersilentlanguage)



Series: Love is a Cat From Hell [1]
Category: Descendants (Disney Movies), The Isle of the Lost Series - Melissa de la Cruz
Genre: Abusive Cruella de Vil (101 Dalmatians), Angst, Bad Parenting, Bad Things Happen To Carlos, Carlos Whump, Carlos-centric, Chapter 3 is Comfort (please see notes), Child Abuse, Domestic Horror, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Anguish, Psychological Horror, Whump, but there will be Jaylos to fix it in Chap 3, detailed trigger warnings in notes, how many ways can I stress this, it's a bad time, welcome to Hell (Hall)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22582378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hersilentlanguage/pseuds/Sparrow
Summary: “I—” He swallowed. “I thought, maybe… we could eat together.”Cruella’s lip twitched up into a near-snarl—an anger that didn’t quite manifest. Her expression became something more neutral,more dangerousas she looked between Carlos and the table arrangement. “I see,” she replied, running her long, manicured nails over the spindles of the nearest dining room chair, filling the space between her words with atap-tap-tap.“Why is that?”“It’s… Mother’s Day,” said Carlos, voice soft and quavering—suddenly uncertain of himself, of the date, of the whole idea.Had he been wrong to think she would like it, or was it simply not good enough? Had he managed to overlook something so obviously wrong that she had noticed it right away? Was he that stupid—that oblivious?He opened his mouth to apologize, but Cruella was already talking (almost laughing, really)—“It’s Mother’s Day,” she echoed.“Mother’s Day…”
Relationships: Carlos & Beelzebub (Chapter 3), Carlos de Vil & Cruella de Vil, Horace & Jasper, Horace & Jasper & Carlos, Horace & Jasper & Cruella de Vil (101 Dalmatians), Jay/Carlos De Vil (Chapter 3)
Series: Love is a Cat From Hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605898
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	1. Motherless Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important:** If you _need_ and/or want the cathartic release of COMFORT to get through a heavy read, please be aware that there is no comfort in this story _until_ Chapter Three. The first two chapters are 5K+ Increasingly Bad Times.
> 
>  **Note on series chronology:** This story can be read as a standalone in the "Love is a Cat From Hell" series, but for anyone wondering where to place it, it's set roughly a year or so before _Because This Must Be_ and _Rats des Villes (City Rats)._ Carlos and Jay (who appears in Chap. 3) have an established bond, but it's slightly less developed than portrayed in the multi-chap timeline of RDV. Oh, and Beelzebub is still around for this one (also in Chap. 3).
> 
> Anyway, for those of you, like me, who enjoy facing God and walking backwards into Hell (Hall), I suggest you hit play on an absolutely horrifying instrumental soundtrack of your choice before reading this fic. More importantly though, you _may_ want to read the chapter-specific trigger warnings in the end notes. Just know that they do contain spoilers! And also please make sure to read the TW list for the second chap, because there is a pretty significant difference in what I'm warning about. If you just want a general (no-spoilers) heads up: this story isn't gory or sexual, _but_ it does get psychologically intense. (Full disclosure: I have an anxiety/panic disorder. I took _many_ mental breaks while I wrote this, and I encourage you to do the same while reading if you need to. No shame in that. Stay safe!)

The meat was grey and damp with oil.

Carlos stood sweating in front of the stove, holding a plastic spatula with a partially melted handle. He reached to pluck the cracked glass lid off the frying pan, then carefully scooped the half-cooked meat to turn it over.

A few sizzling pops resounded as the meat flopped over into the pan again, sending up a spray of oily beef-grit. Carlos winced and grabbed for the dish towel. He scrubbed the greasy stove as clean as he could before wiping at the grit that had smattered on his arm, leaving red marks between his freckles.

 _She’ll be back soon,_ he thought, setting the lid on the pan again. He turned away, toward the dining room table—hesitated—and turned back to lower the heat, desperate not to burn tonight’s dinner.

_It had to be perfect. If it was perfect, if she liked it, then maybe…_

Carlos chewed at his lip, thinking over his earlier preparations.

The table was set for two. He had bartered for wine, dyed it red with berries. He’d even plucked a rare few weeds without defects to make a nice lawn salad. (Hard to be sure about the toxins the leaves might carry, but he’d washed them—twice—and even soaked them in vinegar.)

 _What else?_ The napkins! Well, scraps of fabric, but… he’d folded them up just like Evie had taught him; and they vaguely resembled swans (if you could forgive their twisted wings and broken necks). They were _close-to-pretty,_ in his opinion.

He’d lit candles, which was risky, since his mother wasn’t home yet, so she might think he was wasting them. _Should he blow them out, or was it too late? Had they built up wax drips? Would she smell the smoke lingering, different from her cigarettes?_

_Would she like any of it?_

The front door of the manor slammed open, hard enough to rattle the walls straight on through to the back, where the kitchen was. (He knew what it meant. _She was home.)_

Carlos scrambled to check on the meat, grabbing up a bronze serving platter from one of the cupboards near the stove as he did. He knew his mother would head upstairs to take an inventory of her things, then change into her “house furs” before she demanded her dinner—

Well, _their_ dinner, if he had planned this right.

It was Mother’s Day, and he’d never tried to celebrate it with her before now. Didn’t really have the chance. She was usually away this time of year, having told him long ago that the date wasn’t _his_ concern—that it was her time to enjoy herself, be free of it all.

To that end, she usually favoured the lukewarm springs on the far end of the Isle, around which the trolls had founded a lucrative spa business. It wasn’t much for luxury compared to what she described as her “past life” (how she lived before her villainy had condemned her to the Isle), but it was something.

It made her as close to _happy_ as was possible for her to feel.

And so when Horace had come to the manor yesterday with news that the spa would be closed for _at least_ a month due to an undisclosed “incident,” Cruella’s reaction was predictable—

In a tearful fury, she had stormed out to Castle-Across-The-Way, where the Evil Queen had kept her well into the night. She returned only to sleep—and without a word to anyone.

Come that morning, she had risen late, ignored her breakfast, tried to take the car out, screeched at Jasper for the gas tank showing empty, then marched down the road to the market square in her housecoat and heels, not even thinking to do her make-up.

Jasper went after her, but not before snapping at Carlos to have something on the pan for dinner— _“Something nicer than slop!”_

They didn’t have much of that description, generally.

He’d been surprised to find this bit of meat in their freezer, having no memory of putting it there himself. She didn’t usually care what he cooked, since nothing on the Isle was particularly appetizing, but meat like this was rare enough that he wouldn’t normally have considered it—

(Not on a day that wasn’t special, a day that _wasn’t_ about her.)

Carlos’ hands were shaking slightly as he slid the cooked slab of meat from the spatula onto the serving platter. He took the platter in both hands, not daring to breathe while he walked to the table. (It was a short walk—what with the wall between the kitchen and dining room having been taken out with a mallet at some point. He had only a vague recollection of _that_ incident. It’d happened when he was very young.)

Carefully, and with utmost attention to the details of the overall table arrangement, Carlos set the platter down. He breathed out a shaky wisp of an exhale, then stood back to ensure that nothing was out of place. Not a thing amiss.

 _It all had to be perfect. It had to be_ —

“Carlos, have you bathed today?” drawled Cruella, leaning against the kitchen wall with a long-handled cigarette she’d yet to light. “I could smell you from upstairs, you know.” She stared disgustedly at Carlos, her eyes raking up from his toes to settle on his face. “Disgusting…”

Carlos had spun on his heel at her first word, and now stood with his arms hung straight down like a soldier, his fingers flat against his thighs to discourage himself from fidgeting. “Welcome home, Mama,” he said quietly. “I made—”

“Am I expecting someone?” Cruella interrupted, stalking forward to the table and lighting her cigarette with a white taper candle. She eyed Carlos with a critical, suspicious eye when he faltered in replying to her, which only worsened his nerves.

“I—” He swallowed. “I thought, maybe… we could eat together.”

Cruella’s lip twitched up into a near-snarl—an anger that didn’t quite manifest. Her expression became something more neutral, _more dangerous_ as she looked between Carlos and the table arrangement. “I see,” she replied, running her long, manicured nails over the spindles of the nearest dining room chair, filling the space between her words with a _tap-tap-tap._ “Why is that?”

“It’s… Mother’s Day,” said Carlos, voice soft and quavering—suddenly uncertain of himself, of the date, of the whole idea. _Had he been wrong to think she would like it, or was it simply not good enough? Had he managed to overlook something so obviously wrong that she had noticed it right away? Was he that stupid—that oblivious?_

He opened his mouth to apologize, but Cruella was already talking (almost laughing, really)—

“It’s Mother’s Day,” she echoed. _“Mother’s Day…”_

Carlos shifted nervously, dropping his gaze to the floor. It was dirty. He’d swept, but it was still dirty. _Fucking filthy—_

“You _thought,”_ Cruella started, raising her voice to where it echoed off the ceiling, “I’D WANT THIS? YOU THOUGHT—” She stopped dead to suck at her cigarette, leaving the sentence unfinished, but the sentiment no less obvious. _Hatred hung in the air around her, thicker than smoke._

Carlos didn’t have to look at her to feel it. No—given any choice, he wouldn’t look at her _at all_ when she was like this. He didn’t want to see it on her face, how little she loved him—or worse, that she simply didn’t, _that she couldn’t—_

He flinched when a plate was thrown to shatter at his feet.

In the next second, on his knees, he was trying to clean it up, trying to gather all the pieces, _wondering if the broom would be more effective, but not sure if she would let him get it now—_

“HOW DARE YOU? WASTREL! RUNT!”

Another plate came flying, even harder than the first. He let it happen, too slow to react through the fog that was rolling over him. His body felt strange and heavy, like it weighed too much on his soul. He couldn’t tell the exact moment it happened—just knew he felt, somehow, further from himself than he should be—

Like he had become an observer, as distant as King Beast.

Like he was as abstract as the _golden city_ itself, overlooking the Isle and all its living, breeding, festering wounds—

_Some minor pain, some vague connection to the sight._

He didn’t like to look at it, though; didn’t know why he had to. Couldn’t help, couldn’t help—couldn’t help but _notice…_ those were dog teeth in the wounds, weren’t they?

_Sharp and white and terrible as the ones from his nightmares._

Carlos shuddered viscerally, coming back to himself all at once from the fear that image instilled in him. Sight, sound, time, and feeling rushed around him like water, so intense that he forgot how to breathe as he processed… _everything._

THE SCREAMING. The napkins set aflame on the table. The pain of porcelain shrapnel in his forearms _(not teeth, not teeth)._ THE SCREAMING. It was too much, too loud—

He could end it.

 _Could he?_ He blinked down at the large white shard in his right hand, not remembering when he’d grabbed it off the floor. He turned it over in his palm, feeling its sharp edges, and thinking about it as… _a weapon. It was a weapon, right?_

_Something he could use to make his mother feel as—_

“WORTHLESS,” screeched Cruella, her fist clenched tight around the neck of a swan-folded-napkin with smouldering wingtips as she loomed like a storm over Carlos. “YOU’RE WORTHLESS,” she raged on, and he found himself nodding. “NOTHING BUT A MUTT. AN ANIMAL. YOU WRETCH!”

He continued to nod, letting go of the plate shard in his palm, letting it slip to join the mess around him.

_The mess he made. The mess he’d let happen—_

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, folding his hands in his lap.

Cruella went still and quiet, staring down at him. Her anger seemed to trickle out all at once. She loosened her fist to let go of the napkin she was holding—let it fall to the ground, shapeless and smoking, no more sense of a swan to its form.

Carlos looked at it, instead of his mother. The napkin, the scrap of fabric he’d folded so carefully was something ugly on the floor—a mere rag with which to clean this all up.

_He’d clean all night if it meant he could erase today._

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

And this time, Cruella closed the distance between them, crunching porcelain shards beneath her heels—

She stooped to his level and grabbed hold of his chin, turning his head this way and that as she regarded him, revealing nothing of her thoughts, her new emotions.

Her expression was, in fact, chillingly blank.

 _“Hmm,”_ she hummed out in a flat-line tone, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing the smoke into her son’s face with a sudden ghost of a smile. “Hmm…”

Carlos tried not to cough, but still, his lips parted soundlessly from the urge. He almost choked in surprise when Cruella adjusted her grip so that her fingers pressed hard into his cheeks, keeping his teeth apart, his jaw unlocked.

With her free hand, she angled the tip of her cigarette holder between his teeth, and began to pull and prod at his lips, his gums, his tongue—all the while tilting her head in a show of muted interest, examining his mouth like he were a race horse at auction, some creature to be assessed for value.

Then, just like that, it was over.

Cruella placed the tip of her cigarette back between her own teeth, splayed one hand out over the top of Carlos’ head for balance, and straightened up to where she loomed above him as before—like a threat, like a dark cloud, like a _certainty—_

He closed his eyes, trying not to think what felt so certain.

_He didn’t know. He really didn’t. He just felt it, abstractly._

_The promise of something._

“Clean this up,” said Cruella, turning to leave the room.

Carlos nodded, watching her feet go. “Yes, Mama.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Any kudos or comments would be greatly appreciated! (Tumblr: @hersilentlanguage)
> 
>  **Chapter-Specific Trigger Warnings:** This chapter may be triggering to anyone who has experienced maternal/parental abuse. Carlos, as the POV character, experiences some pretty heavy anxiety and panic attack symptoms throughout (and since this story is written by me, someone who has an anxiety/panic disorder, it may get a little Real). That aside, there are instances of: implied dehumanization (mental/emotional abuse), implied/described disassociation at one point, minor mention/description of wounds, themes/depictions of general domestic violence/abuse, a lot of yelling, and a little swearing. _Note: these trigger warnings will be different for the next chapter._


	2. You Know What You Are?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Important: The chapter count for this story has changed. This chapter does _not_ contain any comfort. If you aren't comfortable reading hurt/angst without the catharsis of comfort, please wait until Chapter 3 is published to start reading. Also, please check the notes for detailed trigger warnings for this chapter (note: there will be spoilers).**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, about that Comfort? This chapter doesn't know her. This chapter is 3,300 words of Hurt. But that's why the chapter count has changed, because _I promise_ the next chapter will be 100% Catharsis and Comfort. I'll bring Jay in. It's gonna be fine.
> 
> In the meantime, I really need to stress (again) that this story gets dark, and that while it is neither gory nor sexual, there is a lot going on here that could be triggering, _especially_ in this chapter. **Please check the end notes for detailed trigger warnings.** And hey, if you can't get through part of this but still want to know what happened so you have context for the Comfort chap (coming up next), please don't be shy to message me (anonymously or otherwise). I can give you a chill summary. <3
> 
> Anyway! I hope you all enjoy this chap! ~~I mean... "enjoy" doesn't really work in this context, but hey. Good luck?~~

Time didn’t pass in the kitchen.

It’d been 9:53 PM ever since the night, several weeks ago, when Cruella had walked into the kitchen to get her liquor—one of the few things she’d serve herself (and only because she didn’t trust anyone else to pour something so rare and expensive on the Isle).

Carlos heard it from another room when the bottle broke. He had found his mother pacing through the shards, muttering about the time, glancing darkly at the frozen clock hands.

He had fixed the clock twice since then. It was easy enough, since the internal workings weren’t too badly damaged. He’d had it ticking and up on the wall again within an hour.

But then, a few days later, the sun was rising at 9:53 PM.

Carlos had taken the clock down to find the batteries missing, apparently scavenged. He didn’t think much of replacing them until it happened again, overnight—and with the way Cruella watched him when she sat down for breakfast in the morning, he could guess what would happen if he asked her about it.

Instead, he had asked Jay to steal him a watch in exchange for a favour. He hadn’t expected anything sellable—certainly not the engraved silver pocket watch that Jay had dropped into his hand a few hours later with a shrug like it was “no big deal.”

Carlos was embarrassed to admit he had managed to have the watch for only a week before Horace had glimpsed it. Next he knew, it was out of his hands and into Horace’s pocket, and so far, he’d found no opportunity to steal it back from the man.

_What time was it now? It felt like hours had passed._

With a sigh, Carlos began to scrub harder at the pan he was washing. He had only a little more to clean-up after this. The manor had been quiet since his mother’s outburst, so with any luck, she had passed out with a bottle of wine.

_Not like she wouldn’t be a nightmare with a hangover, but anyway._

Carlos opened the tap to rinse off the grit he’d scrubbed loose. It was good enough, as it were. The pan would never be perfect, but at least it could still hold a shine between the scratches and burn marks. He shut the tap off and shook the pan out over the sink, then grabbed a drying cloth to finish the job.

Satisfied, Carlos lifted the pan, about to return it to where it usually hung from a hook above the stove. He froze when he noticed from the reflection that someone was standing behind him. _Why hadn’t he heard them come in?_

Carlos angled the pan as discreetly as he could to better reflect the person’s face. _It’s Horace,_ he realized. _Just Horace—for now._ He was staring at Carlos with tired, drooping eyes and a half-melted smile (the look of someone recently roused).

“Uh… _Carlos,”_ said Horace, rolling the name on his tongue like he wasn’t used to it. “I was asked to fetch you for, ah—” He broke into an awkward chuckle, and scratched at his balding head. “Something downstairs, I think.”

Carlos swallowed, slowly setting the pan down on the counter.

“You hear me, right?” (Horace raised his voice like he wasn’t sure, like he genuinely hadn’t considered he’d be ignored.)

Still, there was no answer from Carlos. He just busied his hands with the drying cloth—stretching it out at the corners, folding it one way, then opening it again—folding it back, stretching it out, _folding it, stretching it, folding and stretching—_

“Well?” Horace scuffed at the kitchen tiles like an aging bull, blowing out a moody breath. He stomped forward a few paces, causing the dishes to rattle faintly in the cupboards. When that drew no acknowledgement, Horace grew petulant. “Can’t help feeling you’re disrespecting me, De Vil.” He glowered at Carlos.

(Thing was, Horace had never boasted an alpha’s presence. He knew that about himself, as much as he tried to deny it. No one respected Horace _except_ in his capacity as a harbinger of sorts.)

Carlos took a breath. “I—I need…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the kitchen, which had been mostly straightened out over the last hour or two. _“Time,”_ he finished lamely.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he could hear his mother laughing—telling him he’d have to beg better than _that_ if he wanted his life. (Was it even worth begging for, though?)

“Right, you listen,” Horace began irritably, “I _asked_ you once—”

“What ya _asking_ him for? Idiot!” Jasper prowled into the kitchen like a dangerous animal. He closed in on Horace, and slapped him across the back of the head. “I told you to fucking fetch him, not invite him for tea! For Evil’s sake, do I have to do _everything?_ Wipe your ass for ya, shall I? How’s that?” He sneered at Horace, whose chest had puffed out in indignation at Jasper’s tirade.

Carlos remained at the sink with his back to them both, paying little mind to their argument. He stared down at the towel in his hands, now crumpled into a ball instead of nicely folded. _Didn’t matter, though, did it? The towel was dirty and stained. It had to be washed—probably bleached. It was dirty, so damn dirty._

_Fucking filthy._

Hot breath on Carlos’ neck had him whirling to face a looming, smirking Jasper. The towel dropped from his hands onto Jasper’s scuffed and muddy shoes. _It’d definitely need to be bleached now._

“Alright!” Jasper kicked the towel off to the side without so much as a downwards glance. He slid a hand onto Carlos’ shoulder, then around to the back of his neck, all the while staring him dead in the eye. “Let’s take a walk, mutt.”

Carlos slowly shook his head.

“Not asking,” said Jasper, grabbing a fistful of Carlos’ shirt to wrench him away from the sink. He shoved Carlos ahead of him with enough force to send him stumbling into Horace, who reacted too late to secure his sloppy hold on Carlos.

Cursing at his partner’s incompetence, Jasper leapt forward at the same time as Horace made to prove he _wasn’t_ incompetent.

Carlos made a lightning-fast decision to duck down between the two of them at the last possible second. He heard their skulls crack like thunder above him as he slipped between Horace’s legs, causing the man to grab at Jasper for balance.

“Fuck, Ace! You _dunce cap._ Let go of me, you’re— _oof!”_

Horace grunted. “I’m tryna, tryna—ow, stop! I’m tryna—”

The scuffle raged on as Carlos skidded across the kitchen tiles like a rabbit on ice, not bothering to look over his shoulder. He turned sharply into the hall, grabbing at the doorframe to steady himself, every muscle in him tensed for the sprint to the entrance, out the door and through the gates—

But he didn’t make it far at all before he noticed his mother.

Cruella was leaning with her back against the basement door, staring dully at the deep scratches in the wall across from her as she puffed at her cigarette. She didn’t spare Carlos a glance.

When Jasper and Horace spilled out from the kitchen a second later, they all but fell on their faces in surprise at seeing Cruella. She didn’t usually stick around for any dirty work she gave them, and didn’t usually intervene unless to berate them.

Carlos swallowed thickly as Jasper and Horace broke into an argument behind him, their whispers quickly devolving into a childish fit of slaps and put-downs that was sure to set his mother off on all of them at any moment—

Cruella’s glassy eyes slid sideways, her head following at a slower pace. “Be quiet,” she said lowly, her glare passing through Carlos as good as though he were dead to her.

Jasper and Horace sealed their lips with nervous smiles.

Satisfied, Cruella returned her gaze to the wall, but said nothing further. She didn’t seem to mind that they were all standing there in silence, or that three pairs of eyes were watching her for any sign of her next intention—

Horace cleared his throat, earning himself a jab in the ribs from Jasper. They exchanged a glare, then turned their attention back to Cruella, who breathed out a long and sorrowful sigh that smelled like ashes and liquorice.

“Nine-fifty-three,” she mumbled to herself, slumping against the basement door so gracelessly that she looked for all the world like she were drunk and collapsing from it.

Carlos stepped closer to her out of habit, more than used to being the one she called on, the one she clung to like a maddened sloth when she couldn’t walk on her own from all the liquor in her blood.

“Nine-fifty-three…” She was still mumbling, still not looking at Carlos, but her arm stretched out as if to beckon him, so he took another step to meet her. “Nine-fifty-three…”

Carlos felt her fingers curl around his shirt sleeve, tugging at him until he drew close enough for her hand to weave into his curls. She straightened up a little as she began to drag her nails roughly across his scalp, leaving an itch where she touched. _It was something like affection, maybe a sign she was softening_.

“Mama?” he asked, his voice dry and crackling. “I—I can—”

 _“Don’t,”_ said Cruella, in a tone he recognized as a warning. Her eyes were on him now with a paralyzing intensity. It was the first she’d really looked at him in the last few minutes.

“DON’T,” she repeated, though it sounded to have evolved into a threat. Her hand became a fist in his hair, and it felt so much like she would separate his scalp from his skull if she raised her arm any higher. Breathing shakily through the pain of it, he raised himself up onto his toes, and uttered a faint apology.

Cruella’s eyes grew wide and wild, and she screamed at him, “IT’S TOO LATE!” He flinched from the burn of her spittle. _“It’s too late,”_ she hissed. “Don’t you know _…_ what _time_ it is?”

“8:15 PM,” Horace chirped in response, sliding his foot back just in time to avoid Jasper stamping down on it. “Says here on my watch, see?” He dangled the silver pocket watch from its chain with a smile like that of a drowsy Bassett hound.

Cruella turned her murderous stare on him. “What _time_ is it?” she asked icily, her dark eyes flickering to Jasper, who replied with a silver-toothed grin, “Why, it’s 9:53, of course.”

(Horace cast a glance at his pocket watch, looking like he were about to say something contrary before thinking better of it.)

Cruella hummed low in her throat as she pulled away from the basement door, using her grip on Carlos’ hair to guide him along with her. He moved clumsily to stand at her side, a feeling like fire in the roots of his hair—

“It’s time,” said Cruella in a tone that chilled Carlos all over, left him numb to any pain he felt just then, because _he knew. He knew from the absence of emotion in her voice that worse was coming._

Jasper sauntered to the basement door like an eager puppy. “Allow me, Mizz De Vil,” he murmured, bowing low to her. She scoffed slightly at his antics, but her eyes showed a spark of pleasure. Jasper caught the look through his eyelashes, and moved with all the more pomp and grandeur as he kicked the door open to reveal the great, gaping throat of Hell Hall.

Carlos felt the pull—the order to step forward and face it.

Slowly, he reached up to touch his mother’s bony wrist in a last, silent attempt at placation. He felt her stiffen at the touch, felt the contrast between her pulse and the cold, waxy skin beneath his fingers, _and then—_

And then he was falling.

_It was dark, and the stars were so beautiful._

_He’d seen nights like these in pictures, sometimes in dreams._

_Evie had read him fairytales when they were younger, showed him the sights that Auradon hoarded, and promised they would find a place more beautiful some day—a place their mothers couldn’t reach._

_It didn’t seem possible, even now, as he looked at the sky._

_The stars were beautiful, but were they real?_

He pressed his palms against the cold, gritty concrete floor, and knew all at once that the only real thing was this: the ache in his head, the terrible voices, the creaking of wood, and the rumble of footfall—

“Sure, I’ll get him,” grumbled Horace. “I ain’t got a bad back or nothing. Can’t hardly remember the _wreck_ that caused it.”

“Oh, for—Horace! Come off it! It’s been a damn decade.”

“Yeah, yeah. Damn decade, alright,” muttered Horace.

Carlos grunted in protest as sweaty hands slipped beneath his arms, hooking him like a cattle corpse to get him upright. He swayed dangerously on his feet, feeling more disoriented for the fact of the heavy shadows pressing in around them.

“C’mon, move!” Horace kicked at the back of his ankles to get him walking. “Quick about it! Quick! Ain’t that better for us both?”

“You keep talking to him like that, he’ll call you Papa.”

“Ah, you shut up…”

The lights came on, and Carlos stumbled, half-blinded by the intensity of the nearest low-hanging fluorescent tubes. He shook the spots from his vision, blinking until he could make out what was just in front of him: an old pine-wood table.

_It was something familiar in the worst way. He’d bleached the table a thousand times, tried everything to get the blood out, but it was so, so stained—_

“Upsy-daisy!” said Jasper, his voice all too pleasant as he grabbed at the back of Carlos’ shirt, forced him up onto the table, forced him flat onto his back. “Ace, pass some rope up here, would ya? No, no, that’s _string,_ you dolt! Evil, I swear… _”_

Jasper caught the tangle of thickly braided rope that Horace tossed to him, then promptly laid the heavy bundle on Carlos’ chest while he removed his wrist watch and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. That done, he begun to unwind the rope.

(Carlos wondered idly if this was anything like what it felt to be stuck in a spider’s web, knowing a struggle would excite the predator more, but wanting instinctively to thrash, to tear at the web, to be trouble— _to be just anything but complacent—)_

Carlos sucked in a breath as the lengths of rope across his ribs and belly were yanked hard and knotted beneath the table. He jerked against his restraints in a sudden swell of panic, though the effort earned him little more than a laugh from Jasper.

“Late to the fight, aren’t ya?” Jasper positioned himself at the head of the table with a lazy smirk. He spread his calloused hands out like a plague, worked his fingers up onto Carlos’ freckled cheeks, and massaged at his jaw bone.

Carlos grunted, trying to turn his head away. He grit his teeth together so hard that it pained him, all the while staring icily at Jasper. If nothing else, he’d know that Carlos hated him— _that no fear or pain he inflicted could ever eclipse so much hatred._

“Horace,” said Jasper, grinding his own teeth in annoyance.

Horace rose his fist into the light, then brought it down like a mallet on Carlos’ stomach, drawing out a breathless gasp that had Jasper smirking again. “There’s a good boy,” he mocked, quickly shoving two fingers into Carlos’ mouth. “Now, for our next trick— _ow!_ Fuck! You _little—”_

“You’re bleeding,” Horace said dully from somewhere nearby.

Jasper growled in frustration. “Of course I’m _bleeding,_ you utter shit! I thought you’d stun him!” He gestured meaningfully to his fingers still in Carlos’ mouth, then seized a dirty rag with his free hand, holding it up in a tight fist. “You want something to bite on, runt? Here, I’ll give ya something…”

Carlos held his bite down as long as he could, even as Jasper began to force a rag through the gap between his teeth, pushing it deeper and deeper until Carlos was close to gagging from the smell and taste of whatever household cleaner it had last been doused with.

Finally, with a spiteful jab, Jasper was able to shove the rag in enough that Carlos’ tongue hit the back of his throat, and he began to cough from it. He felt Jasper grab his chin with one hand as he tried to turn away, feeling like he was choking—

“That’s enough struggling out of ya! Give it here quick, Ace.”

Carlos’ mind flared white with anxiety as something hard was wedged between his molars, keeping his mouth from closing.

For several seconds, he saw so little through his wide eyes that he didn’t notice when Horace took Jasper’s place at the head of the table. It was the warm, humid touch of meaty hands against his cheeks that alerted Carlos. He blinked dazedly up at Horace, though the man’s sunken eyes were elsewhere—in fact, his gaze was not-so-discreetly on the stairwell. (He looked nauseous.)

“Are we dentists now?” Horace mumbled. “I don’t like dentists.”

Jasper, reappearing from somewhere on the right, sneered at Horace’s green complexion. _“Hades,_ you’re embarrassing! You fuck this up for me, Ace, and I swear it—”

They argued back and forth for several turns as they stood over Carlos. His heart thumped erratically, the rhythm growing wilder when Jasper whipped something out from a hidden pocket—

The way Horace stumbled back from it, he’d expected a weapon.

“Hang on, hang on!” said Horace, wrinkling his forehead up to such a degree that he looked twice his age in the moment. “You nick that from Mizz Ella?” He clicked his tongue, suddenly smug at the thought he’d caught Jasper. “Oh, she won’t like that…”

Jasper’s lip curled in a snarl. “That’s Mizz _De Vil_ to you.” He advanced on Horace, stepping hard on his toes to pin him. “And no, I didn’t _nick_ nothing from her. She gave me this here tool for the job, see?” He held up the nail file he had clenched in his fist, tapping Horace’s nose with it. “Maybe you’d know that if you hadn’t been napping, eh? You lazy fuck!”

Carlos turned his head away from them, straining to open his jaw wider as he pushed against the wedge and rag with his tongue. It was difficult, with how the chemical taste of the rag had faded into a creeping, tingling sensation of numbness. His tongue felt weak, verging on unresponsive, and in his panic, he began to obsess over the thought that he would swallow and choke on it before long.

Suddenly, Carlos found himself staring up at Horace and Jasper again, his head having been roughly jerked back into position.

Horace kept his eyes averted as Jasper loomed in from the right with a fiendish smile, twirling the nail file in one hand. “Y’know, between us, I think Mizz El goes soft on ya,” said Jasper, curling a finger beneath Carlos’ upper lip, and lifting it to expose one of his canines. “Were it up to me…” He poked at the rag with the end of the nail file. “Don’t think you’d be forgetting your place so often.” Carlos glowered at him, drawing a laugh from Jasper.

“I gotta piss,” Horace grumbled, not looking at either of them.

Jasper was not amused. “Use your pants, then!” he snapped. His sharp stare moved from Horace back to Carlos as he angled the nail file, readying for his work. “Time we get started here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about that cliffhanger. You can _probably_ figure out where this is going from context, but... if not, don't worry. Everything will be explained in the next and final chapter! Which, once again, I swear on my life is going to be a Comfort chap. With Jay. ~~I have a lot to atone for after the hurt I put _myself_ through writing this chapter.~~
> 
> Well, thank you for reading! I'd really love to hear your thoughts if you've got a moment. Kudos are also much appreciated. <3
> 
>  **Chapter-Specific Trigger-Warnings:** This chapter is more intense than the first one. Established triggers that remain relevant: Themes of maternal/parental abuse. Extremely heavy anxiety and panic attack symptoms throughout (again, as written by someone who lives with the disorder). Themes/depictions of domestic violence/abuse, including implications of an alcoholic parent. Minor mention/description of flesh wounds (little bit of blood mentioned).
> 
> NEW triggers for this chapter: Heavy implications of dehumanization (mental/emotional abuse). Implications of possible concussion. Significantly more instances of swearing than first chapter. A few instances of physical violence/abuse against a minor (hair-pulling, hitting, pushing, etc). Usage of restraints. Relatively subtle implications of suicidal thinking (not explicitly stated). _Psychological horror re: teeth. If you are severely phobic of dental procedures, please be especially careful with the second half of this chapter. It's not gory, but it may disturb you._ And finally, I want to warn you that there are parts of this chapter which might be inherently triggering to any CSA survivors who are sensitive to oral-based horror. There is _nothing_ written to be sexual or erotic at ANY point of this story, but still, I don't want anyone to be caught off guard by descriptions of gagging, fingers-in-mouths, and dental equipment (i.e., bite blocker). If you're unsure, maybe just play it safe and skip this one? <3


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